#if i can finish this psych paper that is | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

psychesalcove · 2 months

Note

ֶָ֢ "it's nice that your voice was the first thing i heard today,"

hiiii! can i request a luke castellan x fem reader fic, the scenario being luke just woke up after the quest gone wrong (when he got the scar on his face) and reader is the first one he hears. she’s aphrodite’s daughter but she’s the one cleaning his wound in the infirmary. you can spin it however you like💗 just want some luke castellan fluff (w/ a bit of angst💗) where he confides in reader, and he cries but hides it by nuzzling in her neck, she’s just a comforting gf that feels her neck become damp.

luke castellan x daughter of aphrodte reader

my writes are completely race and body type friendly! feel free to interact my loves:)

part of psyches, 'in memory of those who chose the sea' event

-> want to participate in the event?

an: babes this is suchhh a cute idea for luke omg!! i love detailed asks its amazing n' your ideas are stunning, bueatiful, and everything!! i had so much fun writing this, hope you enjoy! and again, sorry for not writing sooner, i was camping with my family and had no wifi lmao 😓 love ya 🩷 ps. I also did like a lot of writing for this,, so I hope u don't mind lovie!!

you hummed quietly to yourself as you wrapped up a child of ares arm; according to them, they had gotten distracted and accidentally went up against a sword. you patted their arm to signify you were finished. once they got up, you walked over to will.

'how's he doing?' you asked, leaning against the counter will was sitting at. luke, your boyfriend, had a rough go of it on a recent quest. you weren't all sure of what happened; as he passed out before he could get a coherent sentence said. you did catch some words: hermes. hurts. and some other ones that you couldn't quite make out.

will looked up from the pile of paperwork he was reading. 'better. he's still not 100%; but he's making recovery. i'm not exactly sure when he'll wake up,' he explained, briefly scanning the paperwork to make sure he said the correct information.

you hummed, eyes also going down to the paperwork to scan it over. 'do you think i should be with him, when he wakes up?' you asked, eyes going up to meet wills.

'i'll give you the rest of the day off, how about that?' he asked, though it sounded more like a statement. he could probably sense your anxiety about luke and his wellbeing. 'i think he'll be happy to see you,' will gave you a soft smile before his attention went back to his paper.

you thanked him and quickly made your way over to the back of the infirmary; where the private cots were. you gently pulled back the curtain and was met with the same sight that you saw last. luke was laying on the bed, bandages wrapped around his face due to the injury that was on his eye.

you quickly sat down in a chair, prepared to spend however long you would need to wait for luke to wake up.

—

as you looked out the window at camp; a light squeeze on your hand drew your attention back to luke. you smiled softly when you saw him staring back at you, even with one eye. 'hi hon,' you whispered gently, hand squeezing his back.

he didn't say anything, instead smiling a little at you as a response. you took that as he didn't want to talk; especially about the quest he just got back from. you opted to ask a question on a different topic.

'd'you want a hug?'you whispered again, hand still in his. all you got in response was a light nod of the head, a nod you would've missed if you weren't pouring all your attention into him. you removed your hand from his and quickly wrapped your arms around him, holding luke in a protective embrace.

his head quickly found its way to your neck; both of you being mindful of the bandages still on his face. as soon as both of you settled into the hold, lukes shoulders started shaking lightly. in cue, you felt wetness on your neck, along with lukes heavy breathing drying the wetness; though the tears were quickly being replaced by new ones.

you tightened your grip around him. luke rarely cried: you assumed it was the pressure of being a good role model for the younger campers, or even who he associated with at camp. you shuttered lightly at the thought of what must have happened on that quest for him to react like this.

before you could attempt comforting him, he spoke through his quiet sobs. 'im, i'm really sorry for this,' you heard him mumble quietly as his breath picked up even more.

you shook your head softly at him. 'luke, hon. you have absolutely nothing to be sorry for. quests can be hard, they're made to be. its okay to be scared of them. it's natural, completely normal.' you said, hand starting to rub small circles onto his upper back in an attempt to comfort him.

you couldn't tell how long the two of you stayed in that position; you holding onto him like he was your lifeline and luke holding back just as hard. slowly though, his sobs started to subside, and his breathing returned to normal. throughout him crying, you decided not to try and get him to stop, knowing that this crying session was long overdue.

luke seemed to think that he calmed down enough, as he gently pulled out of the embrace. as the two of you stared at eachother, he opened his mouth. 'it's nice that your voice was the first thing i heard today,' he said, a small joking tone to it.

you smiled lightly. 'are you okay?' you asked, ignoring his past comment; knowing it was probably a way to steer the conversation around what just happened.

he sighed deeply, the eye that wasnt covered closing as he layed down again. 'yeah. m'sorry about my, uh. episode. the quest was just a lot.' he chuckled, opening his eye again. 'i love you,'he added, flashing you a quick smile.

you sighed, grabbing his hand and brining it into your embrace again. 'it's okay to have episodes like that love. it's human; you should honestly do it more often.'you hummed gently, rubbing circles onto his knuckles.

luke only nodded lightly in response; seemingly drifting off to sleep once again.

'i love you to, luke.' you mused, pushing up out of the chair and pressing a gentle kiss to his noninjured side of his face.

236 notes · View notes

anne-bsd-bibliophile · 4 months

Text

Mirror: The Fiction and Essays of Kōda Aya translated by Ann Sherif

The papers in those days always had some amazing news in them - from the attempted military coup of February the year before to the start of fighting in China just three months later. A ferocious gale had come sweeping through, causing small whirlwinds some days and, at other times, a tremendous commotion that stirred up everything, even the dust in the forgotten corners of the world. I was just a speck of dust in one of the narrowest, most remote niches. - Kōda Aya, "The Medal"

A kimono worn by a woman immature in her emotions can be a powerful thing. Or, to put it another way, clothes have the strength to control one's psyche. To me, the striped outfit was a uniform; it gave me a sense of direction and a feeling of pride in my work. The apron shielded me from all arrows; it acted as a cast to brace me against all blows. It was a metal fire door behind which I could hide the anguish of my heart. - Kōda Aya, "The Medal"

What other child would fail to rise to the occasion when her father was being so honored? He was my only father, and I his only child. Is this any way to behave? I had lost my way at the bottom of a deep abyss. I cast my eyes upward, toward my father, only to see him dimly shrouded by mist. - Kōda Aya, "The Medal"

I know nothing about the breadth of my father's learning, nor do I pretend to understand the scope of his art. I could not tell you what came to him as a matter of luck, what he accomplished through his own talents, nor about his stature among men. Though I may be vastly ignorant, I do have enough sense not to entertain the foolish notion that he is some kind of lion of literature, a king among writers. He was just my father. From my own biased viewpoint, I would say that Father possessed some lionlike qualities, but there were those of a lion who would finish you off or give you the push-off-the-cliff test. - Kōda Aya, "The Medal"

Father was an unusual man. He would point out the beauty of blossoms or clouds in the sky with the very whip he had cracked a moment before. With the same knife he had just used to rive your innards, he would slice up a wedge of some delicacy for you. No one else I knew could perform such feats. There was something solid about him. I felt all at once like a contrite sinner and a puppy dog who is eager to please. I wanted to cut all ties with him, but at the same time I needed him to recognize me as worthy of his love. - Kōda Aya, "The Medal"

Higuchi Ichiyo's nephew Higuchi Etsu once said about [me and my father]: "The parent dons a medal, and the child an apron." I made a show of laughing at his comment, but only because I wanted to hide my weakness. In fact, that apron chafed against my hands and my heart with its unyielding roughness. - Kōda Aya, "The Medal"

One often hears about the magical powers of mirrors. Certainly the mirror's ability to reflect creates this feeling of mystery. The objects around the viewer look so different in the mirror - what was one may multiply into two or even three. Objects that had appeared to be piled up come apart. Something might look real in the mirror, but then when you try to touch it, you can't. It seems to be there but it makes no sound. Is it real or just an illusion? Sometimes you can see through things in a mirror. Some things seem actually to be alive inside the mirror, but once the reflection stops moving, the illusion of life is gone. The mirror's power resides in this ability to confound. - Kōda Aya, "A Friend for Life"

My life was not going smoothly. I could not handle the problems that confronted me and became unbelievably nervous and stubborn. At times, any little thing would set me off in a rage; often I would get upset and break down in tears. I had so many things on my mind. In those days I consoled myself by leaning up against my mirror. To think how proud I had felt of it on my wedding day. Now all I could do was crouch up against it and sigh. In that house it was the only place where I felt calm. The mirror served more as a support for my emotions than as a glass in which I could see my reflection. The sunny location I had chosen for it had been part of my effort to avoid sadness and gloom in my life, but ironically it ended up lodging a darkened, tired soul. I did, in any case, feel most peaceful when I sat by my mirror. - Kōda Aya, "A Friend for Life"

The first time I wiped the glass, I was shocked to discover how dirty a mirror can become. One usually does not notice the dust; a mirror will reflect even when covered with a heavy layer of grime. And once you get used to this, you may end up looking at yourself and trying to make yourself presentable with powder and lipstick, unaware that you are seeing yourself through a haze. But who bothers to dust mirrors? If even smoothly polished glass attracts dust how much more would accumulate on a troubled heart? - Kōda Aya, "A Friend for Life"

Kōda Aya has also been added to the BSD-Bibliophile Online Library!

You can find more information about Kōda Aya-sensei on the following pages:

List of Books in English Quotes and Facts Collection Fun Facts

#kōda aya #japanese literature #bungo stray dogs #bungou stray dogs #bsd #book recs #book recomendations

190 notes · View notes

xxdark-obsessionxx · 4 months

Note

I’m a big sucker for Psych Au fics. Reader is a cis female doctor who treats Tord with kindness. He becomes obsessed with her. Refuses to talk to any other doctor.

Tord is always on his best behavior for her which leads her to let her guard down.

BIG MISTAKE

I was supposed to be asleep five hours ago but I couldn’t until I finished this. Just know that in my heart, this takes place in Arkham. Also I'm super rusty so I apologize if anything feels off/wonky.

CW: Noncon

Dark themes ahead, please read at your own discretion and keep yourself safe. This is a work of fiction and I do not condone or support scenarios like this in real life

_____________________________________________

“You dropped this.”

The man stares at you wide eyed as you hand him his lighter. He stands, rigid. You give him a gentle smile and press it into his palm, your other hand curling around the back of his hand.

“I know there’s no fluid in it, so you don’t have to worry about me taking it,” you say to him. You pat his hand and step away.

The man turns fully towards you and you’re able to read the name sewed onto his shirt.

“I-” the man- Tord- swallows hard. He quickly pockets the lighter. “Thank you.”

You give him another smile and walk past him. He had seemed to be going the same way as you but he never caught up. Nor did you hear footsteps behind you. Once you reach the director’s office, he leaves your thoughts. You were absolutely determined to make a good first impression on your first day of the job.

The man you met earlier had turned out to be your first patient. And oh boy, what a patient he was. Like you had promised yourself you weren’t going to judge any of these people but god damn. His file was thick. At least twenty papers were inside the manilla folder you had received from the head director’s office. Maybe even more.

You’d never know if you kept standing outside the director’s office gawking at it. You take a deep breath. Going through it sitting down was probably a good idea. As you make your way to the breakroom, your grip on the folder is tight, trying your best to make sure you don’t drop it and reveal your patient's file.

Thankfully, it doesn’t take you long to get to the breakroom. A few people were there but they paid you no mind. They sit, hunched over lunch or their own files. You sit and start to read.

Løvik Tord

3 7 2 5 9

DOB: 1995

Age: 28

Hair: Dark brown with lighter brown roots

Eye: Silver

You end up skimming through this until you get to the bottom of the page. It wasn’t… pretty.

CASE INFORMATION:

Tord is a violent man. He is aggressive, manipulative, and has a short temper. Many doctors have tried working with him to no avail. He does not respond kindly to Dr.Casey (see page 5), Dr.Bonnie (see page 8), Dr.Roxy (see page 12), or Dr.Harley (see page 15).

He is extremely aggressive towards Dr. Bruce (see page 20).

You stop reading there, your chest feeling tight. You flip to page twenty. It’s not the last page like you had hoped. There were still…. Quite a bit in the file.

Dr.Bruce has tried everything he can to help Tord. He has tried finding common ground with the patient. Has tried being lax and strict with Tord’s schedule. Has tried working with Tord and letting him sit outside. Tord had found every loophole and burned every bridge until Dr.Bruce stopped lenient treatments. Tord stabbed Dr.Bruce fifteen times before guards made their way into the room.

It is unknown how and where he had gotten his hands on a sharp long blade. Tord was seen licking the blood of-

“Don’t worry if you can’t fix him. At this point, Doctor Markman hands his case off to fresh blood to showcase this place. No one expects you to be able to tame him.”

You startle at the voice, goosebumps raised on your arms. “I’m sorry?” you ask with a polite smile. Anger clouded your fear. What the hell was this person talking about?

The doctor, Alice, her name tag reads, smiles at you.

“Nearly everyone has tried working with him at this point,” she continues. “No one expects him to ever get better. He's here for murder, after all.”

You give her a tight smile in return. “I’ll just have to see for myself.”

Before she can keep going, you straighten up the papers and close the folder.

“I appreciate the advice, but I must be going now,” you lie through your teeth. What bullshit! What kind of doctors run this place?

You actually hadn’t needed to be anywhere for another thirty minutes but if this conversation continued you wouldn’t be able to hold your tongue. Everyone can be saved. With compassion and kindness and help, no one was beyond redemption. Or too far gone for help.

You storm out of the breakroom and wander.

“I was hoping I’d see you again.”

Tord grins at you as he’s escorted in. His hands are cuffed and before he can sit down, the guard pats him down.

It makes your stomach churn but you keep your face kind.

“It’s nice to see you too,” you greet. You watch cautiously as he sits down in the plush chair. The guard leaves the room.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

It’s silent enough to hear the clock as the two of you study each other. He seems to drink you in, eyes wandering up and down, seeming to take in everything. You’d do the same if you weren’t a professional.

“You used to dye your hair?”

Tord raises an eyebrow. He tilts his head a little, eyes focused solely on you. It unnerves you almost as much as his file had. No patient of yours had ever stared at you so intensely in the past….

After a moment, he answers. “Yes. I fancied black quite a bit.” He gestures towards his roots. “It’s been a while since Bruce got me more dye. No one else will.”

“I could look into it,” you clasp your hands, jumping into this opportunity. “I can’t promise anything, but I’ll talk to Doctor Marksman.”

“And what do you want from me in return?”

“I’m sorry?”

His gaze hardens. “What. do. You. want.” He grinds out, his body rigid in the chair. His hands were clenched.

Without thinking, puzzlement falls across your face. What did he mean? What did you want? For him to get better, obviously.

“I want you to be at ease with your mental health,” you answer, still looking puzzled. “I don’t want anything else from this job but that. I’m not dangling hair dye in front of you in exchange. I want you to feel comfortable in your skin and at home here, Mr.Løvik.”

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

“Is that really what you want?” Tord asks, an emotion you can’t quite place in his voice. “To help me get better?”

Whatever it may be, you smile at him.

“Of course. I want nothing but to see you succeed and be happy here.”

Things were easier after that first session. You always started off kindly, asking Tord how his day was going. If his favorite show or movie had aired on the television today.If his favorite food had been served that morning or afternoon. If he slept fine through the dreadful storm.

(“I know I wasn’t,” you had laughed. “I tossed and turned, jumping at each sound all night.”

“I’m sure your boyfriend was quite displeased.”

“Oh,” you chuckle. “Well, no. I have a cat but no boyfriend. I was too busy getting my decree to ever really mingle like that. Though, my poor little man was also distraught at all the thunder last night. He yowled at my door until I let him into my room and he curled up on my bed. I’ll bring pictures next time.”)

Too well for you and only you. Tord refused to talk to anyone but you. He would sit in silence or insult other doctors during his sessions. In one instance, he broke a new doctor’s nose. The poor guy had quit on the spot, cussing Tord and the whole place out as he was escorted to the medical section.

You were tense the next few sessions but that violent man was nowhere to be found. He kept his cuffed hands right in front where you can see them at all times. He never lunged from you. In fact, barely ever moved in his chair.

Tord was easygoing. Polite, charming, even. He took any medications he needed obediently and put up no fuss when you’d have him describe in later sessions how he was feeling and if he was feeling any negative side effects.

He asked about your cat. About how your favorite show was going. If the movie you were looking forward to has come out yet. If your favorite restaurant down the street from your apartment was still closed for renovations.

Eventually, enough time had passed that you relaxed. You stopped keeping your eyes trained on his hands. You stopped worrying yourself sick about his body language. You focused on his treatments and his mental health.

If he was going to hurt me he would have done so by now, you thought to yourself after your latest session with Tord. He was doing so much better than he had been doing six months ago. It seemed as if you were really making a difference, helping him improve.

It had been three months since he last fought another patient. Two months since he assaulted another doctor. And five months since he refused treatment of any kind.

You step outside the building and take a deep breath. A dopey smile sticks to your face as you walk to your car. Becoming a doctor was the best choice you’ve ever made. Nothing was more rewarding than helping people. Not even this cloudy weather could bring you down.

In fact, nothing tried to drag your mood down. There was no traffic on the way home. Some asshole hadn’t parked in your assigned parking spot again in the parking lot of your apartment. And your sweet cat hadn’t knocked his little box over again.

You happily reheat your leftovers and watch tv for a while before you get ready for bed. Unfortunately, your mood does come crashing down.

In the middle of the night, thunder wakes you. You jolt up, scrambling for your phone. Your hands come up empty. Shit, you think. I left it charging in the kitchen. Ugh. Oh well, you don’t need to look at your phone to see it is late and storming.

Another loud sound booms through your apartment. Only this time, it sounds like a crash.

“It’s just thunder,” you tell yourself. “Nothing to be afraid of.” You lay back down. Your eyes shut and you’re just about drifting to sleep when your door creeks open.

You bolt up, knowing damn well that your cat can’t open doors and you freeze.

Your heart races as your mind tries to process just who was in front of you.

“Tord?” you whimper, hands shaking. But that can’t be. That was impossible. He was supposed to be sleeping soundly in his room with the soundproof headphones you got him. He didn’t like storms. The thunder reminded him too much of gunshots and made him restless.

Useless information floods your brain.

“I’m home, sweetheart,” he rasps. His grin is soft in the moonlight. He reaches over to flick on your bedroom light.

He’s gentle he’s kind he’s sweet he’s-

He’s covered in blood.

Tord steps forward and you’re frozen in bed. His eyes are wild as they drink you in. There’s blood on his hands. In his hair. Splatters on his face.

“Oh honey how I’ve dreamed of this,” he croons at the foot of your bed. “Your apartment is just as cute as you described.”

He grabs the edge of your blanket and pulls it off. His smile grows sappy. “You did go for the red pants like I suggested.” He giggles, staring between your legs. “I wonder if there’s a match beneath them.”

That snaps you out of your shocked stupor. You scramble off your bed, slamming your head hard against your nightstand as you try to avoid Tord’s lunging grasp.

You lay fetal on the floor, tears in your eyes as you clutch your head. “Fuck,” you hiss.

Tord clicks his tongue. He slowly climbs off your bed, crouching next to you. “My poor clumsy sweetheart.”

You feel his hands in your hair.

“What do you want?” you gasp. Fear and pain mix as you start to cry into your carpet.

His hands stroke your hair.

“You.”

With that, you’re powerless to stop him as he scoops you up into his arms. You thrash as he dumps you back onto your bed, pinning you down.

“I know you're scared but it’s ok. I’ll be gentle, my love. So gentle.”

Your mind can’t wrap your head around what’s happening. Tord isn’t supposed to be tying your wrists to your headboard. He isn’t supposed to be kissing your neck and grinding his hard arousal between your legs. He isn’t supposed to be in your home.

“Such a good girl, staying still for me,” Tord says softly as he pulls back. He slides your pants down. Disappoint clouds his eyes when he sees your panties aren’t red but it’s deepened when he pulls those down and you’re barely wet.

“It’s ok sweets. I’ll figure out what gets you going. There’s nothing to be ashamed of in needing help.”

Anger wells in your chest as Tord fishes for something in one of his pockets. How dare he. How dare he parrot your own advice back at you. As if this was a simple therapy session. As if you were the patient and he was the doctor wanting to help.

“Get off me!” you snarl. “You know this isn’t right Tord. Y-you’re sick! You need help!”

Tord stops what he’s doing to stare dead eyed at you. He plucks a clean rag off your nightstand and stuffs it into your mouth.

“Enough of that,” he scolds. “You need this as much as I do. In fact, doctors orders.”

He grins at his own twisted joke. He fishes through his pockets again and pulls out a small bottle of lube. “Yes, just what my love needs. A good thorough fuck.”

You desperately try to spit the rag out but your mouth is too dry. You twist and tug your wrists but to no avail. This was happening. Your gentle, sweet patient was going to take your virginity.

Tord carefully squirts lube onto his fingers, rubbing them together. He parts your folds, humming appreciatively as he rubs your clit.

“That’s it, my good girl. Get nice and wet for me.”

You feel sick. Against your will, his crooning and his touches stir up arousal inside you. You close your eyes as he gently fingers you as if he was searching for something.

A minute later, your eyes fly open as he jabs something horrible. Your pussy grows slick from it, pleasure building in your lower stomach.

“There it is.”

You shake your head violently. Not there, you try to plead with your eyes. Anywhere but there!

But Tord merely smiles at you and ruthlessly abuses that spot. Over and over his fingers jab and curl, rubbing it. You squeeze your eyes tight, small moans making their way out of your throat as pleasure jolts through you.. His thumb strokes your clit and you cum embarrassedly fast. You stare at the ceiling and wish you hadn’t wanted to cum at all.

“Good girl,” Tord praises. He pulls his fingers out, eying them appreciatively. He sticks them in his mouth and sucks, moaning. “So sweet. But I’m too impatient to try it from the source. You’ll have to forgive me, my love.”

Panic jolts up your spine as you feel his tip pressing against your entrance. You try to climb up your bed rest but you only achieve getting a little higher up on your pillows. Tord sighs and presses forward.

“It’ll hurt for a moment but I promise this will feel good,” Tord tries to soothe. He picks up the lube and squeezes more into his palm and strokes himself.

You hate him. You hate him with all your heart.

He pushed forward and once again, you squeezed your eyes tight. His hand roughly grabs your throat.

“Eyes on me,” he snaps. “I want to see how good I make you feel.”

The fear overturns the pain and you quickly open your eyes. He pushes further in, reaching down to run your clit.

Tord rocks his hips a little, eyes starstruck as he stares down at you. “You’re getting wetter,” he mumbles to himself. A grin spreads across his face.

His hips snap forward, setting a firm pace. He stops rubbing your clit to grab under your thighs. He lifts them up and pushes until they’re almost touching your breasts.

He thrusts harder and-

You squeal, bucking your hips as he hits that horrible spot. You can’t stop bucking your hips, jolts of pleasure stabbing your stomach and stars in your eyes.

Tord pressed closer to you, caging you in. He holds your gaze intensely, panting a little. His eyes dart between your face and your bouncing tits.

Like earlier, you cum fast. This one hits you harder. And Tord doesn’t stop.

You cum again and he pulls out. “Move and I’ll beat your ass with a belt,” he growls. He pulls out a switchblade and cuts the rope off your headboard. He’s quick to tie your wrists together.

You find yourself on your stomach, ass up. Tord firmly holds your hips. He enters again, pressing down against you. Caging you against the mattress as he pounds into your pussy hard. By the time you’re cumming again, he finally cums with you.

You’re crying by this point. Overstimulation has you cringing, your pussy tingling as he pulls out. Once again, you start to panic. Tord had come inside you. You thrash underneath him.

“Stop that,” he hisses, slapping your ass hard. You cry harder as he does it another three times. And another, until you finally go still.

You hear Tord sigh harshly. “I need to be patient with you,” he mumbles to himself. He gets off of you and you hear him leave the room.

He’s back within minutes, holding a wet hand towel. You’re gently turned over onto your back and he softly cleans you up. You can’t look at him.

“Mrrow.”

Your heart jolts. Your cat jumps onto the bed, purring as Tord pets him with his clean hand. Traitor.

“You rest while I pack,” Tord says softly. He leans down to press a kiss on your forehead. “I’ll grab everything you need and love for our new home.”

He climbs off the bed and leaves the room again. He comes back with duffel bags. Your cat paddles up to you and curls up next to you. He purrs hard as you sob your eyes out.

#tw yandere #yandere #tw noncon #yandere noncon #yandere tord x reader #cw noncon #cw yandere #yandere smut #yandere lemon #noncon tw #noncon cw #yandere x reader #yandere fic #yandere tord #yandere x you #tw dark fic #yandere sinsworld #sinsworld

291 notes · View notes

noangeleither · 10 months

Text

yin and yang: carmy and sydney's creative processes + menu planning

what i love about analyzing carmy and sydney is the way they mirror each other. their similarities and differences, and how they have the potential to complement each other well. truly make each other better at this.

this is most evident with the way they approach creating a dish.

sydney's creative process

evidenced by sheridan (s01e05) and sundae (s02e03), sydney is very imaginative when it comes to creating a dish. the editing in these episodes gives us an intimate view of her creative process. recipes often come to her in dreams/daydreams.

sydney gets inspired by her passion for cooking, her family history and her city/world around her (architecture, nature, other restaurants in Chicago). this really fits into sydney's motivations as a chef.

Sydney uses food to make people happy. She likes to take care of people. someone on here explained the significance of sydney wanting exactly one michelin star, which would signify affordable high quality food that normal everyday people have access to. in braciole she mentions to marcus that her dad and her didn't really go out to eat so when they did, they made it count and it was special. she wants to create an experience like that with her own spot (the Bear).

so naturally that is reflected in her food. its not simply a great meal, but a fabric/archive of her culture, history, worldview and entire character.

while sydney has a very imaginative creative process, she often just jots down her ideas in her little notebook(s), for later reflection.

carmy's creative process

carmy has a more tense relationship with cooking. while sydney and carmy are both amazing chefs, carmy seems to be more jaded and detached from his work.

for carmy he grew up in a household where food was a big part of his family. his mom, mikey, and nat can all cook well. he is naturally very great at it. he uses food to be closer to the people he loves. thats why in the face of rejection from his brother, he goes off and becomes one of the best chefs in the country out of spite. why he uses the beef to try and fix his relationship with mikey. why he was so devasted when syd quit and why he started his dream restaurant with her after she came back.

because we dont get an intimate look into carmys psyche when creating a dish, its harder to say but based off his monolouge in braciole (s01e8) and the way he uses food to connect with people he loves rather than having passion for it independently i can surmise that carmy isn't imaginative as sydney. food is more like a math equation (ironic)/a science.

“he’s the best bc he didn’t have any of the bullshit”, emotional ties/relationships of any kind. his career esp at EMP were isolating, rigid and cold. he was the best bc he was calculating, precise and competitive. which breeds excellence in his field while straying him further away from love and true passion.

i imagine carmy to be more pragmatic with creating a dish.

but carmy is a creative person at his core and while creating a dish might not be as colorful as when sydney does it. we do know that carmy can draw and visualize his ideas onto paper. "Sistine Chapel" level drawings according to syd.

sydney + carmy - potential true partnership

on my 3rd rewatch, i couldn't help but feel so dissatisfied with their partnership. granted this is on purpose since the show is only 2 seasons in and they are trying to do a slow burn in all aspects, not just romantic.

it really hit me that carmy and sydney have never - at least on screen - created a meal together. in s1, we never see the risotto come to fruition, we just get carmys input but never the finished product. in s2 finally, carmy and Sydney work together now that their dynamic has changed from boss and employee to partners. we get like what? 4 scenes of them creating the menu, and having this amazing professional chemistry but ultimately leads to two failed dishes, which would be ok if they worked together after that. but they dont...

instead for the rest of the season, we see them (mainly Syd) working on the menu separately. the menu is....alright. mainly has carmy written all over it (he has a the seven fishes + cannolis, weird homage to one of the worst nights of his life).

*putting on another pair of shipper goggles to say this makes the whole "you make me better at this" confession, even more mind-boggling bc better at what? you guys haven't even worked together all season. this = life , i rest my case*

in s3 and beyond, im excited for them to truly start working together as partners and actually see them create a dish together.

i want to see how their approaches to creating a dish can help the other.

how sydneys creative process can help carmy

besides the obvious romantic implications of the palette cleanser outing, the potential for them to understand each other on a deeper level in regards to food is something i mourn everyday.

after sydney goes on her trip solo, we see her ride the ferry and just take a look at her surroundings. shes thinking about the food she ate, shes looking at buildings, windows, looking at the snow. all inspiration for a dish.

imagine if carmy was there with her. he would be curious about what she's thinking about, get insight on how she creates and maybe want to learn to see food in a less practical way.

i mean he hadn't drawn in years it seems until he was inspired by sydney and the chaos menu to draw again....now imagine if he didn't ruin the moment by bringing up claire (LMFAO). the point is, sydney naturally sparks creativity and passion in him, even when they aren't together.

i know many people are theorizing that carmy will leave the culinary industry (and i agree most of the time) but i also think sydney is slowly but surely helping him discover/re-discover a passion for cooking. i think that carmy likes that sydney likes to take care of people because subconsciously he knows he does the same thing or has the potential for it (i.e making tiff sprite from scratch when she was experiencing morning sickness). evidenced by fishes (s02e6), care often feels like an obligation (he takes care of drunk donna when shes going through an episode) but it doesnt have to be this way. and now carmy wants to get a star for her....their interests are slowly aligning.

how carmys creative process can help sydney

this isn't as concrete as the one above but i found it interesting thinking about how carmys more pragmatic approach and sydneys idealistic approach can work in tandem.

first scene in pop (s02e5) shows sydney and tina late at night working on the tasting menu. later in the episode we find out that carmy has been pushing back menu planning leaving sydney on her own. she trying an elements concept which is extremly creative and impressive but even tina says, which sydney later agrees, that its a lot for a tasting menu.

im stretching maybe....but based on carmys comment on her risotto from the season before (needs acid) + his practical approach, it seems like he acts like a buffer when sydneys ideas get "a lot".

*in chemistry buffers are solutions added to resist pH changes when acidic and basic components are added*

so if carmy needs to be more creative and sometimes sydneys ambitions gets ahead of her....

sydney is the heart, while carmy is the brain (???)

one cannot work without the other. when they truly come together to create the menu, they both need to learn from one another to elevate the restaurant. not to mention with carmy's italian american roots and syd's Nigerian-Caribbean/southern roots, they have the potential for amazing fusion dishes and real partnership. i and others want the menu to physically reflect both of them.

conclusion

i literally dont know where im going with this. sorta kinda meta but its more like hopes and dreams for next season and me wanting to type my ideas down.

they complement each other well ok? and have potential for a great partnership once they communicate better. i like this part of the definition of yin and yang: Their interaction is thought to maintain the harmony of the universe and to influence everything within it.

carmy and Sydney are the leaders of the bear, their relationship is foundational to the success of their restauarnt and team, once they work together truly, play to their strengths and weaknesses, then will come true harmony in their universe.

bonus

more sydcarm parallels/similaries/differences/yin yang moments:

carmys gold chain, syds silver earrings

carmys white t-shirts, syds white button ups

carmy is bad at math, syds great with numbers

carmy wasn't really great at school, this is sorta fanon but i can imagine syd excelled in school

both wear birkenstocks (more a chef thing but i still think its cute)

sunshine x grumpy trope but like better...usually the sunshine (syd) is more emotionally vulnerable making a space for grumpy (Carm), but they switch positions. carmy allows sydney to be more emotionally vulnerable often initiating deep conversations, while syd is more closed up/guarded

overall tho i think its cute that they are both shy/emotionally stunted but i do think purely aesthetic wise, sydney has a softer exterior ( doe eyes, colourful scarves, awkward) while carmy is more intimidating (tats, smokes, looks angry all the time)

both fight dirty - i.e their individual fights with richie (review, the bear)

carmy tho is more prone to outbrusts of anger/violence while sydney lets that shit shimmer until she explodes on you

both their passcode being 11111

carmy having dark mode on his phone, syd having light mode in s2

their matching clothes moments earlier in the second season and in bolognese

if theres more, pls comment/reblog, bc i always think of this shit and need more to cry about

fin!

credits: gif 1&2 , gif 3 and gif 4

#the bear #sydcarmy #the bear fx #sydney adamu #carmen berzatto #sydcarmy meta #carmen x sydney #chefs kiss #its so late man i dont even care if this doesnt make sense im rambling #the bear meta

169 notes · View notes

farfromstrange · 10 months

Text

Do No Harm

CHAPTER TWO: Imposter Syndrome

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Summary: You've been trying your hardest to focus on your work, but there is something else that is bothering you. Claire decides to give you a call and check up on you. It seems like both of you are keeping secrets of your own, and then there is this handsome lawyer who refuses to leave your mind after he quite literally burst your little bubble of solitude...

Warnings for this chapter: Slight angst, mentions of domestic violence, Reader's POV, use of reader's fake name

Word Count: 4.3k

A/n: It took me a few tries to finish this chapter because I couldn't, for the life of me, settle on a plot, but I think I've got it figured out now. I didn't do the classic "this scene from another POV", I switched it up a bit, so what happened in chapter one isn't repeated word for word. I think it flows better like this. I hope you guys like it, and thank you for your support so far! I really appreciate it.

Read Chapter 2: Imposter Syndrome on AO3.

The human body holds up to six liters of blood. Without saline or a blood transfusion, losing more than two liters can be fatal—and every drop lost after that decreases your chance of survival. A paper cut won’t kill you, but a gunshot wound might. It’s a simple equation that doesn’t require a medical degree to solve.

If the human body experiences trauma though, everything is on the line. A nicked vessel or artery can lead to a bloodbath. Trauma to any of the major organs can lead to internal bleeding and cause the body to suffer fatal consequences. You could lose too much blood too fast, or the blood could travel to your brain, and you could herniate.

Depending on the place of injury, trauma can lead to a large number of complications that are therefore a threat to life. But it’s not just blood that the human body needs to survive; oxygen is another vital player in the game against time. Without it, the brain dies, and if the brain is dead, there is nothing anyone can do to bring you back.

Many things could kill a human being, and many complications could occur in a split second, and that makes trauma an unpredictable event.

Your fingers instantly stop moving over the keys of your computer when the black phone on your desk starts screaming. At first, your eyes switch to your phone, but you have any non-emergent calls silenced. That explains it.

You flinch. You suddenly become painfully aware of the city’s lights shining on you from behind, the blue light of your laptop illuminating your face and causing your pupils to shrink, and the bulb in your desk lamp that is flickering every so often, reminding you that you need to switch it sometime soon.

You pinch the bridge of your nose, then press the acceptance button. You answer the phone. “This is Doctor Clarke at Metro General,” you say. “How can I help you?”

“Jesus,” the familiar voice reaches your ears, and you let out an almost annoyed sigh. “You sound like hell,” Claire answers.

“And you don’t sound sick,” you retort.

You aren’t sure what to make of her sudden mystery illness, or why she didn’t tell you and you had to find out from the hospital administrator who was losing it over the fact that her favorite nurse called out sick that morning.

The phone goes silent for a short moment before she says, “It’s complicated.”

“Hey, we all need sick days sometimes,” you shrug. “Just took us all by surprise, is all.”

“Are you trying to turn this around on me so we won’t have to talk about you?”

Your lips part in a dry chuckle. “Is this about me?” you ask, even though you know very well that it is. You’re the one trying to deflect.

“You silenced your phone.”

With another sigh, you push the stack of papers you’ve been working on aside and take the next folder from the pile. “I’m fine.” You hold the X-ray picture up to the light, squinting your eyes. “Just... splendid, yeah. You want me to do a psych eval? Urine sample? My social security number?”

You can physically hear her roll her eyes at your comment. “Can’t I just be worried about you without you taking it like a personal attack?”

It’s a loaded, rhetorical question asked in a tone that you are more than familiar with. It is a train wreck waiting to happen, but Claire is your friend—a very caring friend, too—and she hardly ever lets loose when she wants to know something.

She knows you better than anyone, after all. She knows everything, even the parts you swore to never talk about again—parts you swore you would take to the grave.

That is the purpose of a new life, isn’t it? Forgetting the past ever happened, then moving on? If that could actually heal trauma, life would be so much easier. Unfortunately, denial tends to make the wounds bleed faster. You will die faster if you keep it all bottled up, but it’s easier said than done when it comes to reality. Sometimes, denial is the only luxury you can afford for yourself, even if it slowly kills you.

You have seen your fair share of traumatic injuries pass in and out of the emergency room over the years. Not just physically but mentally as well. There is only a small margin of error in an even smaller time frame in which traumatic injuries can be treated without lifelong consequences. The scars though, they remain forever.

“Look,” Claire continues softly, “I’m worried about you. I know you hate talking about yourself, but every once in a while, I have to make sure you’re alright and not... falling apart or something.”

You swallow thickly, the lump slowly starting to hurt your esophagus. “Why would I be falling apart?” you question, but your voice no longer has the same level of conviction in it.

Feigned confidence doesn’t go a very long way, you’ve noticed. You can’t stand your ground when you don’t believe in where you’re standing.

“A little birdy told me you had a bad day. That’s why.”

In the halls of a hospital—any hospital—word travels faster than lightning. You roll your eyes, but you don’t know what to say. She isn’t wrong. You did have a bad day. Your blood is still boiling. Everything in you feels a hundred pounds heavier. You may not be falling apart because there is not much of a foundation left to fall apart, but the feeling is eerily similar.

You used to be a beloved surgeon at a prestigious hospital for all five years of your residency, but with each year that passed, what had once been just a spark turned into gigantic flames that slowly began torching your skin. They burned your flesh and dragged it down to your fragile bones. Your body went into shock over the years. You became septic. And it almost killed you, too.

Your heart froze in place before it miserably cracked. It didn’t take long before the inferno took over every last crevice of your life. It burnt out everything that was remotely good for you. You were so dependent on something—someone—that was slowly poisoning you.

You ran for months. You moved from State to State, you changed your name and your whole identity twice. You tried everything to get away, but your demons kept haunting you. The distance between you and your old life grew bigger until eventually, you reached the other side of the country, hundreds of miles from the hell you escaped from. There was nothing left in your past to exist for, so you became someone else. You lost yourself and gained a stranger’s identity in return. Someone who wasn’t scarred from a battle that she almost fully lost.

You thought it would be easy to pretend to be someone else, someone without the same wounds that have been inflicted on you, but that turned out to be the wrong thing to believe.

Claire’s voice rings out again. “What’s going on with you, Liv?” she asks.

You’re not really present at the moment, but this time, you hear her.

You shake your head. “Nothing.” It’s a blatant lie, but it rolls over your tongue so easily, you are tempted to believe it yourself before your friend even can.

“You keep zoning out,” she says. “You’re not helping your case.”

“It’s been a long day, that’s all. What’s going on with you?”

Her lips part in a soft exhale. You hit the nail right on the head. “Nothing’s going on with me. I just had to take a sick day. Migraines, you know? I get them sometimes.”

You don’t buy it. Her voice sounds strained, but more like she is forcing herself to sound sicker than she is. Not that you are allowed to judge, it simply strikes you as odd, considering that she isn’t usually like this, and it makes you wonder what else she is keeping from you.

A pregnant pause follows. “I heard about the girl,” Claire says then, changing the subject. You’re both way too good at that. You’re hypocrites.

“Annie,” you cut her off. “Her name’s—was Annie.”

You keep replaying it over and over in your mind. From the moment you received the page to the ER to the little girl landing on your operating table, you retrace all of your steps. You rethink every decision you made, every uttered order, every cut, and every stitch. Every time you do, you come up empty.

Annie was six years old. She got hit by an oncoming car. It was a gruesome sight, but you kept telling yourself that it could have been worse. She was stabilizing when you took her to the operating room. All the tests suggested that controlling the damage could buy some valuable time for the specialists to do their jobs. In your mind, the path was clear to a full recovery.

Everything you did to save her life ended up doing absolutely nothing.

It elicited a feeling that you are more than used to—inadequacy. You know that it is utterly selfish to think that way; this isn’t even about you. The feeling wraps like a noose around your heart, but you can’t allow yourself to make this about you. You’re not that type of person.

Claire takes your silence as an answer. “I logged into the hospital server and took a look at the X-rays,” she says. “That aortic tear was irreparable, as much for you as it would’ve been for the world’s best cardiothoracic surgeon. This wasn’t your fault.”

Your throat tightens. “You don’t know that,” you argue. “I could have caught it earlier. I could’ve… I could’ve done something.”

“No, Liv, you couldn’t have. But I think you know that.”

You search the depths of your mind for the right words to say, but you come up with none. “Who blabbed, anyway?” you ask.

In this case, though, the question is, who didn’t? Everyone must have heard about Annie by now, and the people around you care too much. It was bound to reach Claire’s ears eventually. You just didn’t think it would happen so soon.

Claire holds off on her answer for a moment. “Doesn’t matter,” she answers. It’s the kindest choice. “What matters is that you can’t beat yourself up for something that wasn’t your fault.” Her voice suggests that she’s smiling.

“I…I’m fine,” you lie.

“I know you’re not.”

“You’re the one who called in sick but clearly isn’t. You don’t see me bugging you about it.”

That shuts her up for a moment. “This isn’t about me,” Claire tries to talk herself out of it, but you see right through her.

“Are you sure?” you ask.

“I—” She sighs. “I promise you, if there was something going on, I’d tell you.”

You should return the sentiment. You should tell her what you’re really thinking, but you’re mute. When it comes to your own feelings, all words in the English dictionary elude you.

Still, the feeling that Claire is lying to you keeps eating away at you. She has no reason to. Or maybe she has, but it’s none of your business. You’re curious, maybe a little worried, but you can’t expect her to tell you every little thing about her life and then refuse to do the same because you can’t possibly ask for help with something you don’t even understand yourself.

You’re miserable enough as it is. You would rather suffer through it alone than bother her with your chronic overthinking and the fear of failure.

“I’m still cat-sitting for Jenny,” she breaks you out of your thoughts.

You chuckle slightly. “But you’re allergic to cats,” you say.

“I know, but…” She stops herself. “The point is, I still have an almost full bottle of white wine in the fridge and there’s this deliciously cheap pizza place around the corner. Their breadsticks are to die for, trust me. You could come over after your shift and we could look after that stupid cat together. Maybe. Just until we both feel better.”

Until you both feel better. You feel like it would take more than wine and pizza to make you feel better.

You need to sulk. You need to marinate in your misery. That way, you can suck it up and be better next time. Everything else seems like too much of a waste of time.

You shatter what little hope she had about you agreeing to her offer like a full wine glass on a white cloth, sure to leave stains. Your hand momentarily motions toward the stack of paperwork, but then you remember that she can’t see over the phone. “I wish I could,” you say, “but I have to finish my surgical reports by tomorrow.”

Claire nods slowly. “Are you sure it’s the paperwork?”

“I promise.”

She accepts defeat. She can’t change your mind. You’re stubborn, determined, and a pain in the ass most of the time. She still loves you, but she has long given up on forcing you out of your shell.

Sometimes, which is more often than not, you prefer to be miserable because you have no idea how to be anything else.

“Well, I tried. So… at least call me if you need anything,” she says.

You offer her a smile, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. You’re tired. Your heart is pounding from all the caffeine and the frustration of the unknown. You have paperwork. As long as you have paperwork, you’re occupied. It’s as good a reason to avoid talking about anything that could be considered even remotely personal.

“Thank you, Claire. For everything,” your voice is barely above a whisper. “Take care of yourself. I’ll talk to you later.”

You hate that you’re like this, but you can’t change who you are now or what all those years of suffering have made out of you. You can’t change the fact that underneath Olivia Clarke, it is not who you are. And it will never be who you are because her identity is a fraud.

You may have escaped the worst time of your life and traded it for a fresh start, but that doesn’t take away the paralyzing fear that still sits deep in your bones, making it impossible for you to sleep at night. It may be a fresh start to a new life, but the slate is far from clean. There are bloodstains that you can’t get out. Stains that will haunt you forever.

Every day and every night that you spend at the hospital, you’re reminded of the terrible past that threatens to overshadow your future whenever you set foot outside. Your name may be Olivia Clarke, but that will never be your real name, no matter how badly you try to pretend it to be. And on some days, it breaks you just a little more when you fail at the one thing you have always excelled at. The one thing you have dedicated your life to. To do something good, to be worth something, and to prove the cruel monsters in your mind wrong about their assessment of you.

You don’t want to be a coward. You don’t want to be weak. You don’t want to be dependent on anything or anyone ever again. You forgot how to be happy. You became someone you’re not because the person you used to be was broken by someone she thought she could trust.

He took everything from you, and he took all that you are. Olivia was never taken advantage of.

Claire saved your life. She knows the truth, but facts aren’t enough. She’s your only support system, the only one who knows who you truly are, deep down, and yet she knows nothing at all.

Long after you’ve hung up the phone, you start wandering the halls of Metro General. You haven’t quite figured out what you’re looking for yet. You want to be alone. You want to be not needed. You want to exist somewhere that isn’t here. And you don’t want to be found, just for a little while.

When you get settled on an empty bed in one of internal medicine’s abandoned hallways that had to be emptied after severe budget cuts affected the hospital, the tears start pouring out without warning. You barely manage to stifle the sobs that slip past your lips. You hate crying. You used to believe that it was a sign of weakness, but tears have become as much of a partner in crime to you as the pain has.

It’s not as easy as it used to be to hold all of those treacherous feelings in—feelings you don’t even understand yourself—and that makes you hate yourself enough to cry even harder. Because you try, try, and you try even harder as you give all of yourself over and over again to be someone you never thought you would turn into, and still, you find yourself failing more times than you could possibly count.

Your life ended when you met the man who ruined you; ever since then, you have only been a shell of the person you used to be, and there is seemingly nothing you can do about it other than accept that Olivia Clarke is who you are now, and she is all you can be.

You didn’t expect another lonely soul in need of an escape to find his way to your little haven. This hallway isn’t even on the hospital map anymore, but he still somehow found his way here.

Your eyes switch to his cane, the red glasses, and the way he so awkwardly carries himself when he seems to realize that he, in fact, isn’t alone. You know that feeling of instant disappointment all too well, and he just caught you crying, which only makes matters worse.

After the initial awkwardness has dissipated and you get to talking, you take a moment to appreciate him. His name is Matthew. He is a defense attorney. He is unlike any man you’ve ever met before. You’re cautious when it comes to new people, but there is something almost calm about him. He’s funny, charming, and he’s respectful. He made you feel comfortable from the start.

There is a mystery surrounding him. You know all about mysteries. They draw you in. They make you feel less alone in a way. He is the biggest one you have encountered so far.

People tend to consider you an enigma, too. Most of them are wary of you because you barely share anything about yourself. You’re still learning, even after two years, to be someone new. You’re constantly reinventing yourself because all you were before is gone now. You lost yourself in the fire. So, most people you meet don’t talk much when they do; you’ve gotten used to having only one friend. It keeps your identity safe, as guarded as you are. It’s the safest bet for everyone involved—or everyone not involved.

Matthew is different. He seems genuinely curious, but he doesn’t pry. And that makes you open yourself up to him, even if it is just your body language. He’s sitting right next to you, his calm voice like a gentle symphony in your ear. He serenades you every time he speaks. That is a dangerous quality. He’s an attractive man, and you can’t keep your eyes off of him. You can’t stop listening. He’s like a work of art—a damaged work of art.

The man before you is broken and bruised. That’s what makes him so mysterious. The hesitation you showed when he introduced himself, indirectly asking for a piece of you in return, shows when you ask about his injuries.

You have seen all kinds of injuries, including those on a blind man who fell down the stairs. Matthew doesn’t fit the profile, and that only makes him more mysterious and therefore more interesting to you.

You have to stop yourself before you ask too many questions. You don’t want to push him away, but you also can’t draw him in. You can be nice, but that is as far as you are willing to go. You hold your walls so high that no one can break through them, no matter how fascinating or attractive they are.

Matthew is a dangerous man because he makes you feel things that you have long told yourself never to feel again. But it’s hard when he makes it so easy to like him.

You patch him up. It’s not just professional courtesy; he seems like he desperately needs someone to look after him. You are being nice to him, that is all. You keep telling yourself the same thing.

You’re still disappointed when you get paged to the emergency room and you have to leave him behind. The chances that you will see him again are low, and they shrink to zero when you return to the hallway four hours later and find it dark and empty again. The plastic packaging of the bandages you used on him is still lying around, but that is all that is left of him. All you have is a memory of a very unexpected encounter that will probably never occur again.

But maybe that isn’t such a bad thing, after all. At least like this, you can’t make the mistake of falling for a guy claiming to be nice. At least like this, you can keep your fragile and already broken heart safe from enduring the same kind of pain ever again.

You pass the nurse’s station in the emergency room on your way out. Dropping the chart of your last patient on the counter, you wish everyone a good night.

“Liv, before you leave–” One of the senior nurses stops you dead in your tracks, “Someone left a card for you,” she says.

You turn around, frowning at her. “A card?” you ask. “Who did?”

Her lips curl into a mischievous smile. “Handsome fella. And he had good manners.”

Your mind reels. There are only a handful of people that would fit that description. Every time someone leaves something behind for you, your first response is to panic. Your blood pressure spikes. You can feel your heart beating up to your throat and your vision blurs. You’re not a fan of the suspense or knowing grins, and it’s obvious.

The nurse’s smile fades and she rummages through the stack of papers next to the computer. “He only knew your first name and his blindness made it a bit harder to figure out who he was talking about, but thankfully we only have one excellent trauma surgeon named Olivia,” she says, her eyes still twinkling. She can’t help it.

You let out an audible exhale. Your body relaxes. Your heart rate slows down. You can finally see her clearly again, and she slides the card across the counter for you to take. You want to apologize for the hostility, but her face tells you that she understands.

The next time your heart starts beating faster, it isn’t out of panic. You look down at the names on the card and the distinctive number on the back, and your brain releases a sudden rush of dopamine. It’s late, you’re tired, but somehow this little gesture puts a surprising smile on your face.

You shouldn’t be as excited as you are. Your plan for this evening has been tossed far out of the window in an instant.

“So,” the nurse asks, “who is he? A patient? A friend?” She wiggles her eyebrows. “A guy from Hinge?”

You shake your head. “Just… a guy I met,” you answer.

If he were an official patient, this would be highly unethical and you would have to toss his number into the nearest trash can.

The blood has permanently settled into your cheeks. You’re not usually the kind of person who blushes. It’s infuriating.

With a chuckle, she leans over. “Well, either way, the guy was smoking. Said you should give him a call. I hope for your sake that you do.”

You keep twisting and turning the card. “What else did he say?”

“Not much. Just said that I should give this to you and that you should call him if you want. You must’ve made quite the impression.”

Your teeth dig into your bottom lip. You would’ve never suspected this. You are essentially still a stranger to him, and he still left you his number. He wants you to call him.

It makes no sense, and yet it flatters you like nothing has in quite a while.

You let out a soft sigh before stuffing the card into the pocket of your coat. Looking up, you meet the nurse’s curious eyes.

Your mind is taking its time to process your thoughts and the feelings connected to your thoughts.

She chuckles at the bewildered look in your eyes. You must look like a fool. “Where does one meet a specimen like that anyway, if you don’t mind me asking?” she says. “‘Cause I desperately need me one of those.”

A beat of silence follows. Then, you wet your lips and answer, “Abandoned hallways. Way more effective than Hinge, apparently.”

The subtle joke makes her laugh. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

You put in the effort to fake a smile with your nod. “Well, thank you,” you say. “You guys have a good shift. If you need anything, page me.”

“Will do,” she says. The other nurses nod. Of course, they listened in on your conversation.

With another small wave in their general direction, you make your way outside into the cool night air. You retrieve the business card from your coat, your eyes roaming over the names carefully printed on it, and the Braille that has been added for obvious reasons.

Nelson & Murdock. Attorneys at law.

From what he told you, this is probably the only somewhat expensive thing he and his partner afforded for a semi-successful marketing plan for their practice. It almost makes you chuckle.

Matt Murdock is a very fascinating man, though as you stare at the card and the number on the back you can’t help but feel a slight hint of unease bubble up in your chest, and you ask yourself, what did you get yourself into?

Tag List: @shiorimakibawrites @allllium @siampie @auroraslibrary @roseallisonparker @abucketofweird @thatonegamefish @capylore @kniselle @sumo-b98 @peachstarliight @danzer8705 @kakamixo @littlehappyperson

#matt murdock #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock x f!reader #matt murdock angst #daredevil #matt murdock x you #daredevil x reader #matt murdock fluff #reader insert #matt murdock fic #doctor!reader #medical drama #matt murdock imagines #charlie cox #do no harm

131 notes · View notes

junespriince · 4 months

Text

Flowers floating in the dark void au

Dick, at his desk overwhelmed:

Wally, walking in: ah, found him Jay, thanks for the help.

Jason (Thanos): yeah, yeah, happy to help, just get him out of there.

Wally, smile: of course. *Shuts the door, walks over to Dick leaning on the desk* hey my love, it's spring time, ya know.

Dick, still doing paperwork, not listening: I'll get to it later, put it in the pile Jay.

Wally, sighs and grabs Dick's face: I don't like being ignored, my love.

Dick, blushing again (and he'll do it again!!): o-oh, sweetheart, I didn't know you were coming to visit, it's spring isn't it?

Wally, smiles again: yes, that's why I came down here. Now put this paperwork up and be with me instead.

Dick: I would, but I can't go on a date right now, I have to get these all sorted out and —

Wally, let's go of his face: I don't need you for a date, I need you to be my little bee and pollinate me, honey.

Dick, confused:

Dick, still confused:

Dick, got it: OH! I uh... *Throws paper work to the floor not caring and got up* of course, why didn't you lead with that.

Wally: thought I was being obvious.

Next meeting with the gods, minus Wally working hard that day

Dick, looking at the floor, very disheveled, bite marks and hickeys on show: I uh, I didn't get to finish my work.

Bruce, glaring at him, thinking some human has distracted him: I can see.

Jason, trying hard not to laugh:

Tim (Ares), looking away because he can't hide his grin:

Damian (Hermes), sighs in disappointment:

Steph (Artemis): oh we're so gonna have to meet this, wildflower, of yours.

Duke (Ouranos): damn,,, and I thought Hal (Dionysus) was bad.

Hal: rude!

Cass (psyche): well, at least you're not stressed anymore.

Kori (Aphrodite), smirking: I'll say.

Dick, blushing even harder: sh-shut up....

Iris (Demeter), glaring: so that's where he went.

Bruce, confused: you know which human did this to him?

Iris: he's not human.

Bruce: oh.

Bruce: OH! Iris, please, don't kill my son we don't have a replacement for his work, and I love my kid.

Dick, glares at Bruce: why my work at front? Why is it important, dad?

Iris, glaring at Bruce: yeah, Bruce, why ain't your love for your child not first?

Bruce, scared: I-I... I'm keeping my mouth shut.

Dick and Iris: good.

69 notes · View notes

shiftertech · 1 year

Text

"The walls are fake, dear."

Another psych eval. Second one this month, and with a different examiner too. It's too soon; they must suspect something. You tap your foot on the linoleum floor of this dull white boxy room, waiting for the examiner to finally show their scrutinizing face. Your eye catches on a picture frame on top of a short cabinet in the corner adjacent to the door, showing a mech of an older design with a pilot posing against its bulky leg assembly. The pilot smiles at the camera, but their eyes stray from the lens, rather glancing up at their hulking partner, with an appreciation you understand intimately.

The door slides open revealing that same face, void of any the joy or energy displayed in the photograph. She introduces herself, admitting openly that your previous eval resulted in a referral for additional screening. Your mind races, thinking what you could have said that would have indicated a discrepancy, a fault? You can't fuck this up you resolve to yourself. You can't be like this ex-pilot, separated from the one thing that made sense in this world, relegated to mundane and empty living. That kind of look she had? It was like she was missing an integral part of herself. No. not you.

The eval starts simple, with basic questions about yourself, your lifestyle, any issues you may have been having lately. Then she asks you what you'd do if you weren't a pilot, and you blank at the question, failing to formulate a response. What was there to do that gave you the same purpose? She decidedly considers the pause as a non-answer, writing something down on the clipboard she was holding. Fuck.

The next few questions are one's you can answer, but aren't much easier than that last one. Then it goes from hard, to impossible to articulate.

"If your mech was to be destroyed how would you feel~ If you were to be physically injured beyond the capability to operate~ What does the link feel like~ What does your mech feel~ Does your mech talk to you~ Do you see yourself in your mech~ Do you see your mech in you?"

So many marks on that damn clipboard. She's scribbling into boxes while your mind crumbles into an ever-growing panic. Fuck, they're gonna take your mech away from you. They're gonna take her.

The examiner eyes you after clipping her pen to the board, seemingly finished. She tells you that the examination is complete with a sigh, and asks if you have anything notable you'd like to add for the evaluation. You meekly shake your head, and she promptly hands you a small slip.

"The next few weeks are going to be a challenging transition, I know, but luckily this base provides ample resources to help with the shift out of the pilot program."

Her words are almost meaningless, said with such disinterest and falsified empathy, it doesn't even register. It only really clicks when you glance down at the sheet in your hands.

PSYCHOLOGICAL EXAMINATION - MOTION TO DISCHARGE PILOT The floor drops out from under you, and the walls close in. Cold white lights burning into your retina's, and a plastic-molded chair biting into your legs, and awful neat lettering on a slip of white paper, and a fake tile floor. Fake, fake, fake, fake. And it strikes you!

This whole room is fake! You feel as if you could get up and push through the walls as if they were nothing, step on the tiles and have them shatter away to concrete and rebar and earth, jump out of the ceiling into the inviting gray storm raging outside the confines of this box—this silly little box. Like the boxes on the examiner's fake little test! It's always boxes, isn't it with these people? Well, you're done with boxes.

And you push through the walls, and you smash through the floor, and jump through the ceiling, and find her sitting exactly where you left her in the motor pool, and she doesn't care about the "military police" and their fake little uniforms as they try to keep you away from her. There are no such thing as walls. She agrees, pushing them aside, stomping them to the floor, jumping to your side. She invites you in, calling to you like a long lost lover, preaching to you about fake walls, floors and ceilings. You step inside, and become one, and find truth in spite of the falsehoods. The link establishes and you can breathe again.

So you push down the hanger doors, and you shatter the concrete beneath, and you fly.

#mecha #writing #transhumanism

176 notes · View notes

i-literally-cant-with-this · 9 months

Text

A/N ::: I don't know that I've ever written anything so quickly. I have a cavity from how gosh darn sweet this is.

C/W ::: Aged up Kirishima (20's dating 27 yr old, single mom, plus size reader), FLUFFYYYY, romantic, unprotected P->V (twice), lovey dovey schmuvvy. Sorry not sorry.

WC ::: Under 950

Thinkin' about Kirishima in his early 20's, in college to become a child psychologist. He gets paired up with you, a 27 year old, cute and kinda chubby, single mom of one. You’re going for your PhD in addiction studies. You’re both in the same basic intro to psych, 3 times a week.

You've been working together on the project for a couple of weeks now and the sexual tension between you is so palpable you could strangle someone with the invisible string that spans the distance between your bodies.

You take your daughter to your mom's house and leave her there for the night. Kirishima is supposed to come over tonight, and you’re going to do the finishing touches on editing the paper and putting the report together.

You cook up something that he mentioned in passing that he loved eating and casually set the coffee table. Nothing fancy, a votive candle that smells like vanilla and some thrift store placemats. When it gets closer to the time he’s supposed to be there, you turn on the fireplace channel on YouTube and put on some music that you know he likes. One day, he dropped his earbuds, and you picked it up to see what he was listening to before returning it to him. He thought it was so cute how your face lit up when you recognized the song (The Beach, The Neighbourhood).

He comes over about 5 minutes to 5 with a small bouquet of mixed wildflowers in a pink crystal vase (he thinks - it's really just cheap glass. But you love it because it's just so damn cute how he thinks it's crystal).

Dinner is full of emphatic conversations about your childhoods. About your best friends. Your bad decisions. Your best decisions. How can you not have good conversation with Kirishima around. C'mon.

He helps you clear the table of the few dishes you used. Offering to help you wash and dry them, but you tell him just to sit them in the sink, you'll get to them tomorrow.

You both stand at the front door, averting your gaze from one another because the night is obviously coming to a close. And neither of you know how to say that you aren't ready to do the old 'See you in class Monday'. You both wanted to sit on the couch for hours just learning everything you can about the other. No matter if it took all night or not.

That awkward moment when you both start to say something at the same time happens. Neither of you know what the other said, neither of you are terribly interested in hearing it repeated.

"Well," he rubs his forearm with his gigantic hand, squeezing it a couple of times, like he was trying to ground himself. "I had a lo- hmph!!!"

You pull him down for a kiss because standing there, listening to his sweet, happy voice and watching him move his mouth - you absolutely cannot stand another second of not pressing yours against it.

"M-me too. Thank you for the flowers, Kirishima. They're beau- mmm!!!"

This time, he pulls you into him and kisses you back with such force and passion that you feel your lungs empty and your legs go weak. He lifts you up and carries you over to the couch, gently perching you on his massive lap. He brushes the loose strands of hair from your neck and starts kissing you so deeply and slowly that you're sure you're going to die before the sun comes up.

"Kuh-eer-ee", you force what little oxygen is left in your body out to say those 3 syllables. You settle yourself over him, knees bent, sitting on your legs. You know they’re going to go numb if you keep sitting like this. But it’s just not as important as being in his arms.

Tangling your hands in his hair, you pull it loose from the bun it's in tonight. His hands explore your body, starting at your love handles. He's squeezing and pushing your hips around, caressing your sides and running his nails up and down your back.

The two of you make love on the couch, and then again in the bedroom. You both fall asleep in each other's arms, too exhausted to even move.

In the morning, Kirishima makes breakfast and does ALL of the dishes. He asks you questions about your daughter (what's she like, what's her favorite toy/color/animal/flower/ice cream/band/Disney character/Disney princess/has she been to Disneyland?/favorite kind of pizza/favorite & least favorite vegetable and fruit/does she like to drink water/all the right questions). You both get dressed, and you fix your hair for the day. He tells you to keep his t-shirt because it looks better on you right now than it ever did on him. Eventually, you said goodbye to each other.

He leaves you with a long kiss on the cheek and a promise to meet you at the library - or your place?? - later that afternoon to work on the project (because oops, nothing got done last night. Maybe the library is best?).

You look out the window as he tosses his backpack over his beautiful, hoodie-clad, broad ass shoulder, and blows a kiss to you with one hand and waves with the other. You can't help but smile because you know that stuff like that takes coordination and you've seen him trip around campus a lot.

You're absolutely sure that you're going to fall in love with him, if you haven't already.

Taglist ::: @thenamesmiz @darkstarlight82 @millennialmagicalgirl @arlerts-angel

#kirishima eijiro x reader #eijiro kirishima x reader #kirishima x reader #kirishima x you #eijiro x reader #kirishima fluff #eijiro fluff #i'm kicking my damn feet so hard it hurts #why is this so cute #mha kirishima #x plus size reader #x female reader #x reader #bnha kirishima #eijirou kirishima

67 notes · View notes

psychesalcove · 17 days

Note

congrats on 100 followers!!! you deserve it🩷🩷

can i request percy with "no, mom, don't tell them I said that about them!"?? i can just see sally telling percy’s s/o just how much he talks about them😭

✧.* percy jackson x gn reader

my blog is completely race & body type friendly!

part of psyches, 'in memory of those who chose the sea' event

-> want to participate?

an: thank you soo so much for the request love!! i definitely think this prompt fits percy really well:) love ya 🩷 ps. i'm sososo sorry about how inactive i've been. I've been having a massive writing block and I've been needing to write for English lately:((

the smell of pancakes pulled you into the kitchen of sallys apartment even more than the warm light shining through the balcony window. sally immediately sensed you walked in, as she turned to you with a soft grin. 'hi, dear.' she said, sleep nowhere in her voice; even though it was 7 on a saturday morning.

'hi, sally,' you smiled. you couldn't count the amount of times you tried to call her ms. jackson only for her to correct you and say 'just call me sally, i'm basically your second mom already' with a wave of her hand.

sally was standing over the oven, making pancakes as you suspected. a couple of bunched up paper towels were on the counter, the blue food dye stains evident on them. 'im just finishing up breakfast, so feel free to have a seat,' she explained, tilting her head twords the small island counter with stools.

you nodded your head and walked over, sitting down in the comfy barstool. as you got rid of the rest of the sleepiness in your system, sally finished up breakfast. as she placed the last of the blue pancakes onto the stack, she turned to you and leaned on the opposite side of the counter you sat at.

'i know i've said this time and time again,' she said; your attention shifting from the tiled counter to sally. 'but, i'm so, so glad percy met you. you help him so much, and i can see, and even feel, how much that boy loves and lives for you.'

you heart melted, even though sally says that almost every time you see her. 'the amount of things he says about you whenever he comes home,' she scoffed playfully. 'it's insane.'

you giggled. 'what does he even say?' you asked.

sally scoffed jokingly again. 'well, last week, he came home all blushing and giggling. i asked what happened. he just started rambling about how—'

sally was interrupted by percys dramatic entrance into the kitchen. he stumbled a little as he corrected his footing, his eyes darting between you and his mom. 'no mom,' he started, pointing a finger at sally. 'don't tell them i said that about them,' he said, his hands moving to rub at his eyes; he probably stumbled out of bed in record time.

you laughed as sally rolled her eyes at percy. 'personally, your partner should know how much you love them,' sally said, moving to clean up the blue-stained paper towels.

percy simply gasped at her. 'mom! do you not see how much i love them?' he asked, hand coming up to clench the fabric of his shirt where his heart is. drama king. when sally didn't respond, he countined. 'here, ill even show you the love i give them at 7 in the morning,' he said, walking over to you and pressing extremely loud and wet kisses to your cheek and nose.

'percy!' you gasped, playfully shoving him off of you. 'that's gross,' percy simply moved behind you, arms going around your waist to hug you. 'and you have awful morning breath,' you said as you leaned back into him.

'you see how i get treated when i show them the love they deserve mom?' percy asked while sally simply laughed.

225 notes · View notes

bullet-prooflove · 12 days

Note

If you’re still open to writing for Douglas Hamilton:

“You lean in closer and my heart starts to pound”

Tagging: @kmc1989 @lucymalfoy18 @ashrionest @mimi-8793 @glamourous-eloquence

Companion piece to:

Mississippi Meanders - Douglas doesn't expect to meet the love of his life.

Your first date takes place surrounded by a myriad of art supplies. Douglas is standing amidst the mess with his sleeves rolled up and his hands on his hips as he surveys the task at hand.

These, you think, are the moments his PR person should be documenting. The ones where he’s genuinely immersed in the community instead off the staged bullshit she puts together.

It’s been a couple of days since the two of you ran into each other during another charity event. You’d given your number to Douglas last month and not heard a thing from him, you didn’t understand why.

“Why didn’t you call?” You’d asked him when you’d found yourself standing beside him at the bar.

“Because you were too good to be true.” He’d told you frankly.

Its in that moment you gain an insight into the Mayor that you’ve never really considered. Douglas, he comes from a world where everyone is vying for his attention, his favour. Every single one of them takes from him, but they never give. You can’t imagine what that must do to a person’s psyche.

“I could list some faults if you’d like.” You’d suggested as you’d taken a sip from your drink. “Take a step down off that pedestal you’ve put me on.”

He’d laughed then, not that wry chuckle he usually does to appease a constituent but a real one, one that comes from somewhere deep down in his chest. He relaxes after that, you can see the pressure of his position slip away and for a moment he’s just Douglas, the man, not the Mayor.

It’s the appearance of Martha, his PR person that changes things again. She appears by his side, taking his arm, drawing him away and he sighs before he casts you a longing look.

You don’t expect to see him again after that, his mind seemed made up when it came to the nature of your relationship and there’s no point chasing someone who doesn’t want to be caught.

When he turns up at the museum the next day you’re surprised. You’re setting up for a kids art program you’ve been running the last few weeks, clad in jeans and an old t-shirt that declares your love for Frida Kahlo instead of your usual power dress and high heels.

“I thought we could have lunch together.” He declares, leaving his entourage at the door and you gesture to the space around you regretfully.

“What if I helped you?” He’d asked you, already stripping out of his jacket. “We can eat after?”

“I’d like that.” You tell him before you get to work.

It’s a quicker and easier task with the two of you working on it. You finish up with thirty minutes to spare and find yourself sitting on the sensory blanket you’ve laid on the floor eating sushi with the Mayor.

“What changed your mind about me?” You ask him, setting the empty tray aside and popping the complimentary mint in your mouth.

“I made a list of your faults.” He teases you as he sets his own meal aside. “Honestly though it was the fact you say what’s on your mind. I never have to second guess what you’re thinking, or look for the barb in the nicety. You’re upfront and I like that, it’s rare in my world.”

“It’s rare in my world too, there’s a lot of subtext in the art world.” You tell him as you organise the litter into a neat pile. “It’s exhausting.”

“It is.” He agrees, his elbows coming to rest upon his knees as he studies the mobile above him. It’s one the kids have made out of coloured tissue paper, glue and glittery string. “The reason I got into politics was because of programs like this, my home life wasn’t exactly stable growing up and art was great outlet for me to vent some of the stress I was feeling. It was something I could lose myself in when…”

He stops himself then because he doesn’t do this. He doesn’t talk about the past, about the fact his father, a well-respected police man used to beat the hell out of him and his mother.

“…When you didn’t have a safe space.” You finish and he inclines his head, neither confirming or denying your summation. “I get that, art for me was…”

It’s at that second that the clack of high heels on tile interrupts you because Martha the PR Rep is back, already moving him on to his next appointment. He sighs remorsefully as he raises to his feet, helping you to your own.

“Don’t let yourself lose that safe space.” You tell him as you raise up on tiptoes and kiss his cheek. “No matter how busy you get.”

It’s later that evening he calls you, you’re just closing up the museum, when your phone rings with an unknown number.

“Hello?” You say as you cradle the phone against your shoulder whilst attempting to twist your keys in the lock.

“Have dinner with me tomorrow night.” He requests and you can hear the vulnerability in his tone. “Maybe we can talk about safe spaces some more.”

Love Douglas? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Interested in supporting me? Join my Patreon for Bonus Content!

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

#douglas hamilton #douglas hamilton x reader #ncis new orleans #ncis nola

33 notes · View notes